thousand men-at-arms left in England I would say
fight. As it is, our men are yonder in France and the island is
defenceless. Accordingly I ride for the north to make what terms I may
with the King of Scots."

Now you might have seen the Queen's eye brighten. "Undoubtedly," said
she, "in her lord's absence it is the wife's part to defend his
belongings. And my lord's fief is England. I bid you God-speed,
Catherine." And when the Countess was gone, Philippa turned, her round
face somewhat dazed and flushed. "She betrays him! she compounds with
the Scot! Mother of Christ, let me not fail!"

"A ship must be despatched to bid Sire Edward return," said the
secretary. "Otherwise all England is lost."

"Not so, John Copeland! We must let Sire Edward complete his
overrunning of France, if such be the Trinity's will. You know
perfectly well that he has always had a fancy to conquer France; and
if I bade him return now he would be vexed."

"The disappointment of the King," John Copeland considered, "is a
smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered."

"Not to me, John Copeland," the Queen said.

Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. "We
must make peace with the Scottish rascal!--England is lost!--A ship
must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!" So they shouted.

"Messieurs," said Queen Philippa, "who commands here? Am I, then, some
woman of the town?"

Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward
window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument
half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng.
"Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent."

"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented, deep in
meditation.

John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol
lustily.

Sang John Copeland:

"There are taller lads than Atys,
And many are wiser than he,--
How should I heed them?--whose fate is
Ever to serve and to be
Ever the lover of Atys,
And die that Atys may dine,
Live if he need me--Then heed me,
And speed me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!

"Fair is the form unbeholden,
And golden the glory of thee
Whose voice is the voice of a vision
Whose face is the foam of the sea,
And the fall of whose feet is the flutter
Of breezes in birches and pine,
When thou drawest near me, to hear me,
And cheer me, (the moment